Certain to appeal to fans of Janet Evanovich, Jennifer Crusie, and
Katie MacAlister, Elise Sax’s hilarious series debut introduces
matchmaker-in-training Gladie Burger, who stumbles into a dangerous quagmire of
murder and red-hot romance.

Three months has been
Gladie Burger’s limit when it comes to staying in one place. That’s why Gladie
is more than a little skeptical when her eccentric Grandma Zelda recruits her
to the family’s matchmaking business in the quaint small town of Cannes,
California. What’s more, Gladie is also highly unqualified, having a terrible
track record with romance. Still, Zelda is convinced that her granddaughter has
“the gift.” But when the going gets tough, Gladie wonders if this gift has a
return policy.

When Zelda’s neighbor
drops dead in his kitchen, Gladie is swept into his bizarre family’s drama.
Despite warnings from the (distractingly gorgeous) chief of police to steer
clear of his investigation, Gladie is out to prove that her neighbor’s death
was murder. It’s not too long before she’s in way over her head—with the hunky
police chief, a dysfunctional family full of possible killers, and yet another
mysterious and handsome man, whose attentions she’s unable to ignore. Gladie is
clearly being pursued—either by true love or by a murderer. Who will catch her
first?

Praise for An Affair to Dismember

“Elise Sax’s new
Matchmaker series is off to a rousing start! . . . Sax gives the comic mystery
genre a new spin. . . . A fun read sure to entertain.”—RT Book Reviews

“Fans of laugh-out-loud
romantic suspense will enjoy this new author as she joins the ranks of Janet
Evanovich, Katie MacAllister, and Jennifer Crusie.”—Booklist

“In the tradition of
Janet Evanovich’s Stephanie Plum series, Elise Sax’s new novel is a funny, sexy
ride.”—Valerie Frankel, author of Four
of a Kind

“What a fun book! It
will leave readers begging for more.”—Kim
Gruenenfelder, author of There’s Cake in My Future

About the Author:

Elise Sax worked as a
journalist for fifteen years, mostly in Paris, France. She took a detour from journalism and became a private investigator before trying her hand at writing
fiction. She lives in Southern California with her two sons. An Affair to
Dismember, the first in the Matchmaker mystery series, is her first novel.

When you first start out, you’re going to
ask people what they’re looking for. This is a big mistake. Huge. They want the
impossible. Every woman wants a Cary Grant with a thick wallet who doesn’t mind
if she’s a few pounds overweight. Every man wants a floozy he can take home to
Mom. See? Asking their opinions only leads to headaches you could die from.
Take it from me, I’ve been doing this a lot of years. Nobody knows what they
want. You have to size a person up and tell them what they want. It might take
convincing, but you’ll widen their horizons, and they’ll thank you for it.
Eventually. Remember, love can come from anywhere, usually where you least
expect it. Tell them not to be afraid, even if it hits them on the head and
hurts a lot at first. With enough time, any schlimazel can turn into a Cary
Grant or a presentable floozy.

Lesson 22, Matchmaking Advice from Your Grandma Zelda

The morning I found out about Randy Terns’ murder, I was happily oblivious. I
was too busy to care, trying to make heads or tails of my grandma’s matchmaking
business. Nobody actually mentioned the word “murder” that morning. I sort of
stumbled onto the idea later on.

That Thursday I sat in my grandma’s makeshift office in the attic of her
sprawling Victorian house, buried under mounds of yellowed index cards and
black-and-white Polaroid pictures. It was all part of Zelda’s Match­making
Services, a business I now co-owned at my grandma’s insistence as her only
living relative and what she called “a natural matchmaker if ever I saw one.”

“Gladie Burger,” she had told me over the phone three months before, urging me
to move in with her, “you come from a long line of Burger women. Burger women
are matchmaker women.”

I was a Burger woman, but I had strong doubts about the matchmaker part.
Besides, I couldn’t decipher the business. It was stuck in the dark ages with
no computer, let alone Internet connection. Grandma fluctuated between staging
workshops, running group meetings, hosting walk-­ins, and just knowing when
someone needed to be fixed up. “It’s an intuitive thing,” she explained.

I pushed aside a stack of cards, stirring up a black cloud of dust. I had been
a matchmaker in training for three months, and I was no closer to matching any
couples. To be truthful, I hadn’t even tried. I wiped my dusty hands on my
sweatpants and stared at the giant mound on her desk. “Grandma, I’m not a
matchmaker,” I said to her stapler. “I’ve never even had a successful
relationship. I wouldn’t know one if I saw one.”

I had a sudden desire for fudge. I gave my stomach a squish and tugged at my
elastic waistband. My grandmother was a notorious junk food addict, and I had
slipped into her bad habits since I moved in with her. Hard to believe I was
the same person who not even four months ago was a cashier in a trendy health
food store in Los Angeles, the second-­to-­last job I had had in a more than
ten-­year string of jobs—­which was probably why Grandma had twisted my arm to
move to Cannes, California.

I decided against fudge and picked up an index card. It read: George Jackson,
thirty-­five years old. Next to the note, in Grandma’s handwriting, was
scribbled Not a day less than forty-­three; breath like someone died in his
mouth. Halitosis George was looking for a stewardess, someone who looked like
Jackie Kennedy and had a fondness for Studebakers. Whoa, Grandma kept some
pretty old records. I needed to throw out 95 percent of the cards, but I didn’t
know which 5 percent to keep.

Putting down the card, I stared out the window, my favorite activity these
days. What had I gotten myself into? I had no skills as a matchmaker. I was
more of a temp agency kind of gal. Something where I wasn’t in charge of other
people’s lives. My three-­week stint as a wine cork inspector was more my
speed.

A man and his German shepherd ran down the street. I checked my watch: 12:10
p.m. Right on time. I could always count on the habits of the neighbors. There
was a regular stream of devoted dog walkers, joggers, and cyclists that passed
the house on a daily basis. Not much changed here. The small mountain town was
low on surprises. I tried to convince myself that was a good thing. Stability
was good. Commitment was good.

With sudden resolve, I took George Jackson’s card and threw it in the
wastebasket. “Bye, George. I hope you found love and an Altoid.”

I tried another card. Sarah Johns. Nineteen years old. She had gotten first
prize at the county fair for her blueberry pie, and she was looking for an
honest man who didn’t drink too much. My grandma had seen something more in
her. Poor thing. Art school better than man, she had written in the margins.

I tossed the card, letting it float onto George. Matchmaking was no easy task.
It wasn’t all speed dating and online chat rooms. Lives were on the line. One
false move and futures could be ruined.

I need to be there...

Looking for Something Smutty

What's Coming Up...

Want Some of my Smut...

Books are my crack & I'll gladly pimp myself out for them. Okay, maybe not myself... But some of my tribal men! I love to READ - hello - that is why I am here!!!
Join me on my journey of reading... I promise if you hold my hand I will be gentle ~ maybe!
I do review books... If you are interested in being here, just let me know!!! I am sure there is something we can work our **Evil laughter**